Everyone needs a Lucy in their life
Teachers are heroes, sometimes long after you leave their classroom
A fact that I often share without shame or embarrassment—and that people find hard to believe—is that I was a terrible student in middle and high school. Just last year I saw some of my high school transcripts, which for some godforsaken reason my Mom still had amidst her possessions.
I looked at them, laughed, and said, “Wow, these are even worse than I remember!” All Cs, Ds, and multiple failed final exams, with the exception of As in music.
The reason people don’t believe me is because by modern conventions, I am an Accomplished Adult (caps warranted). I graduated magna cum laude and Phi Beta Kappa from college. I went on to earn a Master’s degree, then a Ph.D., then finished my career in academia with a prestigious postdoctoral fellowship awarded by the NIH to fund my triple appointment at Massachusetts General Hospital, Harvard Medical School, and Massachusetts Institute of Technology.
But in middle and high school, I struggled. Hard. I could neither absorb information nor play it back. I could see neither the big picture nor compute the small details. It was a lot like being a Peanuts character where the adults all sound like noise. But at the beginning of each quarter I tried to hit the reset button, saying to myself, “Okay, starting now I am going to pay close attention and take good notes and get As!” This intention never came to fruition and my struggles felt worse given the company I kept. My friends all seemed to be honor roll, honor society, Book Award (caps warranted) people.
What I know now, after years of reflection and therapy and education about adverse childhood experiences (ACEs) is that two crucial things helped me shift my trajectory and find my intellectual side. First, escaping the chaos and noise of my home environment—as well as an abusive “romantic” relationship—was key. I applaud my parents (and cultural norms, I suppose) for insisting I go to college even though I didn’t show much promise on paper.
And second, there are a series of trusted adults who saved me by seeing me. One of those adults is my high school teacher Lucy Myers.
Lucy was an English teacher and part of a three-teacher team who taught a special humanities course my senior year. This was a Smart Person class, packed with students who eventually went on to elite colleges. I struggled my way through the class, not doing well on any of the academic assignments. I did, however, excel at the recreational, self-assigned assignment of designing and producing red “Virtu” (a rally word in our class) long-sleeved t-shirts for those who wished to wear them.
Lucy also was the advisor for the high school newspaper, of which I was the Arts & Entertainment editor. In both realms—and despite my inability to deliver on the academics—she was ever present in her support of me as a human being.
She told me I was an amazing person.
She told me I was creative.
She told me I was smart.
The smart part was so out of joint with the narrative that I otherwise heard about myself that it almost seemed nonsensical, but Lucy was not one for bullshit. Though I couldn’t articulate it at the time, I think I realized that she saw something in me, yet untapped, which kept the door to hope ajar in my mind.
Lucy’s affirming words are what a kid who is close to falling off a cliff needs to hear in order to take a small step back. And then another step. And then another and another step before there is a pause, an adjustment of course, checking of gear, and an attempt to try again in a forward direction.
It took a career change and some additional years, but that forward direction eventually led me to publish a book and start writing for major media. And Lucy always showed up. At a book event on the North Shore I looked out into the audience and saw Lucy; I later learned that she was ecstatic when she saw a promotional event flier with my face on it and wanted to show up for me. And when my first essay was published in Boston Globe Magazine—a piece about prioritizing life skills and self-directed passions over grades and standardized tests amidst the chaos and uncertainty of the pandemic—the first email I received about it was from Lucy, praising my writing, saying, “I loved all the parts about joy and the joy lever. As always, you are amazing and wonderful.”
Lucy and I have a longstanding tradition of exchanging Christmas cards, which then reminds us to email one another and book a lunch date. We met last week and I was so happy to be in her presence that when our waiter came over to introduce himself, I said, “Hello, thank you! Let me introduce you to one of the very best people in the world!”
Over lunch Lucy and I caught up on all manner of life and work. At one point she asked whether I was still writing for major outlets and I deflated a little. After an unexpected prolific run of nearly 20 features within about a year, I lost steam. I told Lucy that I had kind of fallen off the horse; that I was so immersed in personal writing and emotional labor that I didn’t have the motivation to pitch or take assignments and that I didn’t feel like researching and interviewing people and going through line edits. I told her that I felt guilty about this; my editors are the most wonderful, smart people. It has been such an honor to work with them and it was so validating when they trusted in me as an unproven (to them) commodity at the beginning of 2021.
“I don’t know,” I said. “I kind of want to just reach out and share where I am at and tell them how much I value them and thank them for being awesome, but is that…weird?”
“No, I think you should do just that,” she said. “It never hurts to be honest and let someone know you are thinking of them.”
I dragged my heels for the next few days, dreading the task, and then last Friday (what I call Adulting Fridays) I wrote to each of my editors, explaining where I was at and expressing my gratitude to and for them. These were emails without a promise or a call to action or a question to be answered. In this world of “let me circle back” and “what do you think of this idea?” it was a strange yet authentic and liberating experience.
Afterwards, I felt relieved. I sent an email to Lucy to thank her for her encouragement and guidance.
And with a smile and a sigh I thought, here she is again, nearly 32 years after I graduated from her humanities classroom, helping me check my gear and adjust my course so I can keep moving forward.
Thank you for being one of the very best people in the world, Lucy.
P.S. Lucy responded back to my thank you note and closed with, “I think honesty is often the shaper of brilliant writing!” Indeed.
P.P.S. I heard back from two of my editors in short order and they were both wonderful and understanding and affirming of my path. Also, it’s worth noting that these communications added evidence to the case file that I have the capacity to spin all manner of narratives about how other people might be interpreting my actions (or lack of actions).
Writing this post about Lucy is related to several other conversations I have had through podcasts. I hope you will consider:
This conversation with Rebecca Woolf is an invitation to explore how to live with authenticity, compassion, and grace.
One of the reasons I lost steam on major media writing is that I have been engaged in deep personal writing that is proving healing. Consider this conversation about healing through expression with Kristen Mei Chase.
My date with Lucy was solidified through one of the micro goals I talked about at the beginning of the year; to find simple tactics to reboot my friendships.
It was so meaningful to talk with Margaret Ables and Amy Wilson about building a family after adverse childhood experiences.
And one final sweet thing. Lucy gifted me with a jar of homemade beach plum jelly. I had never heard of a beach plum and upon looking it up, learned that the beach plum (Prunus maritima) is a wild edible; a resilient crop that can thrive in “degraded land”—land that is dry, sandy, or gravelly.
I will leave it to you to conjure the meaning I drew from this learning.
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